A Genius on a Canvas
by starlit skyes
Summary: There are so many things I, Albus Dumbledore, might be able to do–but I remain in this hopeless portrait of an afterlife. Alas, from here I can only sleep–and think. Meanwhile, I try to save the wizarding world with my undoubtedly brilliant ideas. Wacky!


**A/N These are purely musings and thoughts of our amusing, favorite, crooked-nosed headmaster! Yeah that's right, all Wacky!Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore's point of view, from his portrait. If you wanna get some action, this isn't the place.**

The story:

I bend, and flick a speck of dust off of the glass in my frame. With a sigh, I lean back again on my red leather recliner, and fix my half moon spectacles on my absurdly crooked nose. I sigh again. In all one hundred and twenty-six years of my life, I never got the chance to retaliate to that particular show of temper by my brother. Now it is much too late–after all, in what possible way can I physically assault him from inside my "wonderful" portrait?

But I must admit, Aberforth was correct in breaking my nose. This thought reminds me of Ariana, my sweet little sister, who, due to my unforgivable foolishness and arrogance, exists no more. Of course, I am not aware of who had actually struck the blow that snuffed out her life, but I am mortally responsible. How proud I was, of my own indomitable success; I realized my duty only as my Ariana lay there, broken, lifeless. Her demise was the curse of my ego.

I pull out the enormous white handkerchief that Rebeus Hagrid had once lent me, and dab at my wet eyes from behind my spectacles.

I then stare at the handkerchief, bewildered.

How, I wonder, did I manage to bring this table-cloth sized handkerchief into this useless afterlife, of all things? Why did _this particular handkerchief_ happen to be in the pocket of my robes? A Mystery.

I recall the experiments of Sir Podmus Bubblehead. The fellow, in a quest to understand the mysteries of different forms of reincarnation–had once performed a very interesting experiment, with enormous potential. His intent, I believe, was to basically see if one had a choice of what one could take with himself into a portrait.

The more important aspect of his analysis was the ice cream–the man had an obsession with ice cream cones, which was what had originally drawn me to him.

Sir Podmus decided to kill himself with an ice cream cone in hand, while a terrified assistant snapped his picture, thus creating for himself a portrait in which he'd have an eternal supply of ice cream, with which he would be content, if you understand me(as you know, time dies not pass in afterlife portraits).

But alas, as Podmus attempted to pose more majestically, he tripped on a fold in his carpet–and the extremely nervous assistant clicked too soon.

So there the fellow was, stuck in a picture, with the ice cream melting on his Italian carpet. So foolish, if he had just performed a simple Terrestrial Balance Charm(the incantation was simple, and the wand movement–swish, poke, jab, smack!) he might have been successful!

I frown. Some people, however brilliant, just couldn't summon the help of simple spells! An entire cone of ice cream wasted! Atrocity, atrocity...

I am beginning to feel rather strongly the monotony of being enclosed behind thick glass, with mahogany frames around me. The fact that there are so many different portraits of me, and all of them are of myself behind this very same desk annoys me repeatedly. Why not draw me elsewhere, somewhere useful, or at least in Honeydukes?

Now forever I am stuck here, with the very same books to read, and the very same window to look out of, and the very same Foe Glass to look into, and actually see nothing, as the dead are not really endangered by their enemies.

I could have helped Sir Podmus, I could have done so many things...Ideas begin to form in my head now. Would _Indeminito Sampricittri_ have assisted? But no use, no use. I am now a Genius(forgive the lack of humility) glued to a canvas.

I wish someone had portrayed my dearest friend, Gellert Grindelwald. We could have indulged in such amusement! Just _one_ portrait of him and me together, and I would be promised some fun. But no, he was too evil to be painted. I remember the pain it gave me to duel him, my best friend, and _defeat him._ Forced by my reputation and love for goodwill to conquer one who was closest to me.

I shake my head gravely. In spite of the fact that he might have killed my sister, I cannot despise him.

But such musings are no good, now. If only I could find a way to keep myself distracted; my portrayer had even failed to draw _interesting _books. In a vain attempt to see if any of the titles miraculously interests me now, I push my spectacles further up my nose, and begin to survey the tall piles of books in the round table in front of me.

_Terrors of Blast-Ended-Screwts _by Perry Fearsome. Pity the man didn't act on his surname, and cast a simple _Simdinio Cuddlia_ on the animals, which would make them as tame as my teddy bear, Fuzzy.

_How to Grow Extra Limbs_ by Gornwill Threeleg. Nay. I am contented with my humble two feet and hands, thankyou very much. I do not plan to impersonate a spider, or any such thing, in the near future.

_Devilment in Corporeality Undaunted by Nobility and Consecrated by Sinful Traits _by...I cannot pronounce his name. Or perhaps the writer is a female. Or he–or she–might be a vampire, or something similar–considering the topic. Anyhow, the book could just have been named _How Ghosts can be Bad_ couldn't it? _Such_ a waste of words...

_Give Your Enemy Mile-long Toenails_ by Gloria Nuttyman. There is something useful. But, I wonder, why would I want to give something as useful as mile-long toenails to my enemies? Such possibilities! And long toenails given to Lord Voldemort(my enemy) would probably only act as an added weapon, which he undoubtedly does not need.

I give up, casting away the books with a wrinkle of nose. Not a single book worth reading. And why was it that all the books I was left with were either gruesome or malevolent? I had led a noble enough life, had I not?

Why not leave at least _one_ Muggle magazine! To have at least _one_ knitting pattern to enlighten myself! Is it utterly _impossible_ to draw an Archie Comic?! I am disgusted.

I remove my long, pointed dragon hide shoes, and pat feeling into my feet, which have grown numb. At least I didn't have feet that smelled abominable.

I think of Cornelius, whose first wife eloped with another man a week after their marriage. Cornelius had always stated that his lady had left him at his orders–her salads were too soggy for his liking, but I thought otherwise...A bad smell can keep one _awaker_ that a uneasy conscience. The good woman had probably just wished for a time when she could breathe deeply when her husband removed his shoes.

Such are my thoughts, for at the moment I have nothing better to entertain myself, and Severus isn't due until another...I check my watch...two minutes. The thought of meeting Severus, however much he is helping us, makes me a little weary. I am unable to suppress another little sigh.

"Tired, are you?" A snide voice asks me.

I look at the portrait on the wall perpendicular to mine, where an old wizard wearing slightly moldy brown robes, and thick spectacles eyes me.

"You might say so, Phineas. I'm an old man."

"You _were _old. Now you're dead, Albus, face it. You're not of much help to anyone." he says encouragingly.

"I know," I agree gravely. "But one does try to be of assistance," I suppress a smile as I remember how much of the day Phineas Nigellus spends being tired. But of course, it would be impolite to point out that little fact.

"Alright, whatever you say. _I_ was never one to argue senselessly."

I hear the inflection in his tone with suppressed amusement. Dear Phineas.

"Severus coming soon?" he inquires a few moments later, frowning with curiosity.

"Yes, he should be coming quite soon," I answer.

"But Albus..." he begins.

I grimace, predicting the rest of his sentence. These people never understand, it seems.

"Why the boy? Why are you so stubborn to entrust such an important task to an ordinary boy of average intellect?" He gives me an outraged, incredulous look.

"And he knows no respect for his teachers. I don't understand you." Phineas grumbles the last sentence. In his assessment, this is the very worst quality a child can possess. I am sure he is referring to the various times Harry has rightfully raged at me for the foolish mistakes I have made.

"I would not expect you to, Phineas," I remind him serenely.

"Old fool..." he mutters, clearly meaning for it to be unintelligible; very conveniently, he gives a loud yawn.

"Napping for a while, Albus, if you don't mind."

"Feel free," I assure him courteously.

I am rather grateful that he leans back his head and begins to "nap", though, after exactly ten seconds, most loud, unnatural sounds erupt from him, which rather reminds me of the only sounds dear Dolores Umbridge was able to make for a few weeks after her little exchange with the centaurs .

I chuckle quietly.

I think of what I am planning to do, of the long winding path I have forced Harry Potter to take. Severus is helping me, as are so many others, to make this work–but I feel this burning desire to be there! I know, I know, I _asked_ Severus to end my life, but who ever _wants_ to die? Other than Nicholas, of course.

I am brilliant, exceptionally so, even if I do say so myself–I could have so many things done! But here I am, trapped in this useless, nonsensical portrait. The only activity I can do here is sleep–and think. I have a remarkable mind, but of course, my thoughts have to be _implemented. _They are implemented, and yet, I am definitely dissatisfied.

I could have at least become a ghost, could I have not? So I could have _moved around. _And it would doubtless have been lots of entertainment–I have never been able to enjoy flying, due to my large height and weight, and, let me be honest with you, my total lack of skill at cavorting around on a broomstick. And the idea of being able to _haunt_ fascinates me. But nay, I am eternally sitting here, at this woebegone desk.

At this time a man opens the door to my office, and steps in. Or, rather, opens the door to _his_ office, for he is the headmaster at this time.

"Good Evening, Severus," I say politely, with a smile.

The man removes his long black travelling cloak, and then turns to face me. His thick black hair, which he parts across the middle, covers his eyes. He nods curtly to me.

"They are presently in the Forest of Dean, I am told," he reports, glancing significantly at Phineas, who finds this the right moment to mumble "Just two bottles of toad pickles, thank you..." and then give a very realistic snore.

I gather that Phineas must have informed Severus while I was asleep, and this is why he saw fit to be unconscious now. I smile knowingly.

"And now, Severus, you must entrust the Sword to them!" I say.

"I know." his voice is slightly gruff.

"But make sure they don't know it is you, for the Dar–"

"I am aware of that, Dumbledore," Snape snaps.

I look at him from under my spectacles, which has slid to the tip of my nose, trying to decipher the reason for his impolite mood.

"I know what to do, and it shall be done." he states. Something about his expression tells me that I am about to discover the cause for his discomfort.

He pulls back his dark hair from his face, and looks up to glare at me, his sallow face ashen.

"Why, Dumbledore," he demands. "Why am I doing your bidding?"

I merely survey him disapprovingly, trying to delve into his mind, but of course, not succeeding. Severus is an extremely talented Occlumens.

"Why do you trust _him_, and not me! Why do I have to run about doing these things, endangering my life–not knowing _why! _" His voice is growing louder, and he closes his eyes and places his fingers at his temple in an attempt to calm himself.

"Tell me, Dumbledore." he says through clenched teeth.

"We have gone through this before, Severus," I remind him wearily.

"Tell me."

"For Lily's son–for the good of the wizarding world. That is all I can tell you now, Severus." I gaze at him sadly. "You will just have to trust me."

"Lily! Lily means _nothing_ to you! You are merely using her to get _your_ job done!"

"But she means a lot to you, Severus, even now. Do it for her, if not anything else. Find a way to hand Harry the Sword of Griffindor." I say in a tired voice.

Severus takes several deep breaths, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Alright. Just one more thing," he says quietly, in a clipped tone.

"Does–does Potter know?" he whispers.

"Know what?" I ask calmly.

"Don't play games with me, Dumbledore!" he spits.

"Know that you've loved Lily Potter, for all these long years, and always will? No, Harry is not aware."

Severus's head is bowed. Finally, he looks up. "Thank you. For at least that." he says softly.

I smile ruefully at him. "I still say that is the best of you, Severus. Not something to be ashamed of."

"James Potter's son cannot know, Dumbledore. Please."

"Whatever you say," I decide to be meek. I fear the man is reaching his breaking point.

"I'll do what you say–Potter will have the sword. I have a plan," he says in a carefully businesslike tone, and I understand that the past few sentences of our conversation are to be put past. I try again to probe his mind, but am disappointed again. I _do _so want to know what he is planning!

"Alright, Severus, I trust you," I say, and notice that my voice is comforting and soothing. He scowls at me.

"Right," he says curtly. "Later, then, Dumbledore."

I nod at him. He gives me a last glower, and then stomps out of the door, his black cloak whirling around him.

I heave a deep, weary breath. Visits from the new Headmaster always seem to make me feel this way. I suppose that this is because Severus is...disappointed. In every possible way. There is nothing more life can give him, and even if it does, he is not prepared to accept it. He clings on to the passionate, irrevocable love he has for Lily Potter, the love that even death and more that sixteen years cannot weaken, and it is more or less the only reason for his existence.

But yet, he keeps it shut into himself, not having anyone ever know about what makes him human–I still feel that the love he has for her is the only thing that makes him what he is–courageous, noble, powerful. But yet, he is unhappy, determined to be, for all that can make him happy is Lily Potter–and she was never his.

It is as though some of his sorrow rubs off on me...perhaps because he keeps it so fiercely restrained, that it emanates from him–because it has to be expressed in some way.

Then I notice that the chain-saw impersonation reverberating across the room from the portrait of Phineas Nigellus is rather distracting.

"You can wake up now, Phineas," I inform him sternly. "You perhaps need snoring lessons, considering that the siesta pretension is rather...common, concerning you,"

Phineas opens his eyes blearily, rubbing his knuckles on them sleepily in a manner that is usually found with 4 year olds. He then notices that perhaps my expression is rather unconvinced, and he says gruffly the unintelligible word, "Harrumph".

I raise my eyebrows, amused, and I go back to my unvoiced thoughts.

The idea of Lord Voldemort finally destroyed sends in me fierce, delighted shivers. The wizard has committed unspeakable crimes, indulges in such appalling, mostrous evils! Normally peaceful man though I am, I wish for just _one_ opportunity to duel the creature, to show him what he must be showed. He does not deserve a quick _death_, although he is under the impression that this is the worst thing that can occur.

Other plans form sadistically in my mind–but since I am a gentleman, I shall not voice them, even in my thoughts.

I think of Harry, wondering what he must be doing now. He would hate me–hate that the fact that he has to trust me blindly, implicitly. I hoped that the boy would get some good out of life–if he lived, that is. It saddens me that his existence is so unsure, so uncertain. He deserves more.

I hope that once this War is over, if Harry lives, he is able to lead a peaceful existence following his true dreams and ambitions. Honestly, the poor boy has spent most of his life trying just to stay _alive._

I think about the various things that might happen if the fall of Lord Voldemort takes place–especially the love that might come triumphant. Harry needed time to simply _love life._ Though certain glances exchanged between him and the charming Cho Chang, even after their somewhat famous split, gives me an inkling of further romance in its intimacy.

I hope Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood realize their feelings. Ronald and Hermione have already, and I am sure, however the War turns out, they will be driven to express their emotions. It is somewhat exasperatingly amusing to see how much the two tried to hide it.

But I am worried about Draco Malfoy. The boy is almost as unfortunate as Harry, perhaps even more. Because Draco had the choice of a normal, happy, _loved _life, even had a faint taste of it–but was forced cruelly to adopt a lifestyle that he utterly repulsed. That very faint taste he got of that life is utter cruelty–the pain involved in refusing all the things he appreciated in life for committing the darkest, most heinous of actions is indefinable.

I hope, for his sake, that if the War ends the way it should–that he will be able to accept what he deserved, and wanted. I hope that Draco and Ginevra will be able to form the bonds that they were forbidden to.

Yes, the two clearly feel a passion for each other that is usually unseen–a passion that has been so heartlessly, viciously repressed. I wish that if things were to go the way we all hoped, that passion will not be unseen any longer. The throbbing ache I was able to see in Draco's eyes in my very last minutes, as he informed me that Death Eaters were present in the school was...terrible.

They deserve a lot more than pain for each other. For Love is far, far beyond any magic that any school can have a prayer of teaching. It is painful to see how much of it is being subdued–again due to Voldemort.

I sigh. Today seems to be the day of sighs. I assure you, I don't sigh so much on a daily basis. But somehow, the despair of the situation around me is...sigh-able.

I reach into my pocket, and retrieve a sherbet lemon. I smile at the far back memory, when dear Minerva scorned my taste for these delicious Muggle sweets.

I quickly peel off the wrapper, and pop the sweet into my mouth, revelling in the taste of the tangy, honeyed sweet. Sometimes, I feel that these wizards should learn about things like _this _from Muggles, instead of trying to decipher confusing things life workings of engines, and goodness knows what else.

I reach into one of my other countless pockets, searching for another delicacy that may be available. I come out with two other crinkled, slightly sticky sherbet lemons. That is all.

I frown.

If only I wasn't stuck here! Life would not feel like worth living–alright, I am not actually living, so I shall rephrase–It will not seem worth it to exist without at least a few sweets to cheer me up at times!

If only...if only I wasn't a Genius glued to a Canvas.

Sigh.

**FIN**

**People, if you're reading this, pretty please with sugar and chocolate and treacle and whatever on top, REVIEW! It doesn't take too long to tell me what you think! ^_^**


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